Faking Life (29 page)

“No, I have specific instructions from a Mrs. Gloria Rimbaud to give you this bottle. It's already been paid for.” John cocked an eyebrow and looked at Esther. Her face was stolid, her lips sealed.
Nobody knew about Gloria. It couldn't be a prank. The only people who knew were…but that was impossible
.

John glanced around the bar. Nobody looked even remotely like Gloria, not even any women in her age bracket.

“Who placed the order?” John said.

“Why, Mrs. Gloria Rimbaud of course.” John saw the waiter's eyes waiver.

“Please, tell me the truth. Who placed the order?”

Then man sighed, then said, “Alright, but in case he asks, promise you won't say I said anything. A man came and placed the order this afternoon. He said he was placing the order
for
a Mrs. Gloria Rimbaud.” The waiter leaned in and whispered. “But between you and me sir, this bottle wasn't cheap. We didn't have any in stock, but he
insisted
it be Beringer '86. Paid a pretty penny for us to find a bottle.” John stammered, losing his composure.

“Who was this guy? What did he look like?” The waiter shrugged.

“Don't remember much, sir.” Then his eyes sparked recognition. “But sir, he was wearing a baseball cap and he was limping a bit.” John felt his blood pressure rising.

“Was it a Yankees hat by any chance?” The waiter nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes sir, in fact it was. My son is a big fan, actually. We're going to a game…”

“Did the man leave a name, other than Gloria Rimbaud?” The waiter shook his head.
Who the fuck was this guy?
The only people who knew about Gloria were Gloria herself and…

“Esther, hold on one second.” John took out his cell phone and dialed. He listened to six increasingly frustrating rings, then heard Nico Vanetti's voicemail answer. He hung up. He'd call back tomorrow.

Was it possible Gloria could have realized who he was? Could she have recognized him? He'd find out later. Right now, nothing was important enough to interrupt his date.

“Sir, would you care to taste the wine.” John leaned back and shook his head. He turned to Esther. He could swear she'd lost color in her face.

“Est, is everything alright?” She nodded weakly. John motioned for the waiter to pour the rest of the wine. He filled both glasses before John could stop him.

“Don't worry, I'll take care of that guy if he comes back for you.” John smiled. “But you did give him a wicked mule kick. I'm not surprised he's still limping.” Esther nodded her head, then took a breath.

“Are you ready to order, sir?”

“Actually we haven't gotten our menus yet.” The waiter lightly slapped his head and made a
tsk tsk
sound.

“That's a terrible thing. I bring you right away.”

“Oh, and can I have a Bud Light while you're at it?”

“Of course.” The waiter left. John noticed Esther's hand was trembling slightly. He took it in his hand and smoothed her skin, feeling the warmth pass from him to her.

“I'm sure it's a misunderstanding. See, I knew a girl named Gloria years ago. Nothing you have to worry about, let's just say it was never meant to be.” Esther smiled and seemed to regain her color. Her eyes became animated. She let the stillness pass, then poured a dollop of olive oil onto her bread plate and dipped a seasoned roll. Slowly easing it into her mouth, her eyes rolled in ecstasy.

“Mmm…I can't get enough of the bread in this place.” She offered him a roll.

“Nah, trying to cut back on my carbs.” Esther nodded as though she'd heard that a thousand times. She put the bread down.

“So the last few times I've seen you, you've either run away or broken someone's face. I was wondering if that's the way you are with all women, or if it's just me that brings out the worst in you.” John laughed and took a roll.

“I wouldn't say there's any more
worst
in me than in anyone else. Everyone has a boiling point, and I guess I happened to hit mine the other night. But not every boiling point is a bad thing. Sometimes letting off steam helps. True, it can be a little more productive, but hey, the past is the past.”

“Sounds like you need a real woman's touch.”

John thought for a moment. “You know, I'm not sure. I haven't been with what I'd call a 'real woman' in a while. You work in a bar, you don't really get the girls that are looking for romance. Most people think a two-dollar tip means they own me for the night. I'm cheaper than a boyfriend.”

“So how does that work out for you? Being cheap?” Her smile was contagious, her lips revealing dainty, perfect teeth. John stared for a moment, then spoke.

“I absolutely hate it,” he said with a smile. He tore off a piece of bread and attacked it. He held the ripped piece in his mouth until Esther had no choice but to laugh. Then he chewed and swallowed. “And to be honest, I'm glad I got fired. I worked at that place way too long…but I don't know. It's different now. I was looking forward to some time off, to do what I really want to do. The only problem is that life doesn't really let you take a break whenever you want. It just keeps on going. I'd love to keep doing what I'm doing now. I just need to know I can.”

The waiter returned with their menus. He placed a pint of beer in a frosted glass in front of John and recited the night's specials, including an entree of linguini with fresh seafood that John decided on instantly.

“Know what you want?” John asked. He took a sip of his beer. Cool, crisp, beer-commercial goodness.

She grinned slyly. “Oh yeah.”

“Well that was confident.”

“I come here all the time. The fettuccine with clam sauce is incredible, and I usually get half a Caesar salad to start.”

“Why don't you make that a whole salad and we'll split it.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Esther's first glass of wine disappeared. She hesitated for a moment before pouring another. John made the decision for her by taking the bottle and filling her glass halfway. When he put it down, she picked it up and filled it to the top. To compensate, he chugged down a third of his beer and clunked it on the table.

When the waiter returned, John ordered for them both, the waiter complimenting them on their taste in entrees. John, his first beer nearly finished, ordered another pint, his hands absently tracing the bulge of his wallet.

“So what are you gonna do about work? Do you have anything lined up?” He slowly shook his head and savored the final sip of beer.

“Nothing specific. I'm sure if I ask Artie
really
nice he'll give me a referral, but I doubt I could get much more than an Upper East Side dive. Maybe somewhere in the village if I'm lucky. But I don't want to do that again. The problem is I don't have much training in anything else and my resume consists of the bar for six years and then an internship I had in college. Not much for an employer to hand out benefits for, especially these days.”

“I know what you mean,” Esther said, eyes darting about the table as though she were unsuccessfully searching for a different answer.

“You do? I thought you had a job.”

“I do. I mean, I'm probably in a similar boat. I like what I do, but I expected to be more satisfied by this point. I can't really put my finger on it.” She motioned to a passing busboy for more water. “But I understand what you're saying. Sometimes when you're just looking for a rest, life drags you along.”

“So are you ever gonna tell me what you do?” Esther remained silent, her face looking at her plate. Then she looked up.

“Maybe,” she said. “When I get more comfortable with it.”

They sat for several minutes in silence. The waiter returned and took John's empty glass. He replaced it with a fresh beer and served two half portions of salad. He set them down and went to another table, where a heavyset man in a gray pinstriped suit was beckoning with one finger.

“I didn't realize this came with anchovies,” John said, picking out a slimy piece and dropping it on his napkin.

“I didn't know you hated anchovies.”

John laughed. “Why would you know something like that?” Esther didn't respond.

“Here,” she said. She switched her plate with his. “This one has less of them. You can pick them out and put them on my plate. I love anchovies.”
Guess she's not preparing for a goodnight kiss
, John thought. He watched her pop a forkful of salad—topped by a large, brown anchovy—into her mouth. “So how have you been passing time since you got fired? Any hobbies, girlfriends, pets keeping you busy?” John smiled and leaned back.

He found himself charmed by the sour smell of anchovies as they wafted from Esther's mouth. She wasn't being dainty or delicate, or trying too hard to come off sassy or sexy. She wasn't guilty of any of the unforgivable sins women at bars tended to collect like so many bottles of designer perfume. She surely didn't realize her breath reeked, but that was what made the moment endearing. She was above that. Beyond it. She knew there was something between them and was confident enough to drop the blanket of conscientiousness that hampered the potential of so many disastrous dates. Esther knew what she had to offer. Confidence, to John, was sexy in women only if they were unaware of it. Fake confidence—the kind displayed by girls used to getting their way—was as unappealing as moldy foccachia.

“John?” she said, leaning across the table and snapping her fingers.

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was asking what you're doing to keep busy while you look for work.”

“Writing actually.” He stopped. A smile came across his face and a chuckle escaped his lips. He shook his head and took a large swallow of his beer.

“What's funny?”

“You're the first person I've told.”

“About what?”

“My writing. Well, my roommate knows, but he doesn't know how serious it is. We've never really spoken about it. I've been writing a book—a memoir I guess you could say—for a few months now. I even have an agent, silly as that sounds.” Esther remained silent. Her eyes were concentrating on the glass of wine, gently rolling it between her fingers.

Finally she broke the silence. “That's really great. I'm sure a lot of people would love to read it.”

“You mean that? How do you know?”

“I'm sure you have a lot to say. I know some people in that industry and I'm sure they'd be interested.” John's eyes perked up.

“Really? Like who?” Esther didn't seem to be expecting the question, though her reply was quick and confident.

“A guy I know named Jeremy Friedkin. He's an editor and he's always on the lookout for slice of life stuff, things people can relate to. Not the cheesy memoiry stuff written by the granddaughters of famous actors or boozehounds in rehab. Not stuff people can only relate to if they pull in a few million a year.”

“I don't think mine falls under that category,” he said. “But if you're looking for someone readers who can relate to who pulls in a few
thousand
a year, I'm your man.”

Esther chewed with her mouth open, blissfully unaware, the sweet smell of anchovies lingering. John finished his second beer and refused a third while Esther drained the rest of her wine. The waiter cleared the table and brought out a small dish of freshly grated Parmesan cheese.

“Maybe I could put you in touch with Jeremy,” she said. The way she talked, it sounded like an afterthought. Something he shouldn't pay
that
much attention to, but hopefully noticed.

“That'd be great,” John said. Esther smiled and dug into her purse, a small black cylinder that looked barely large enough to hold a stick of gum. She took out a tiny brown wallet, unsnapped the button, and rifled through an assortment of business cards. When she found the one she was looking for, she handed it to John.

“Thanks.” He put it in his pocket.

“You're not going to lose that, are you?”

“I don't lose anything, especially phone numbers given to me by women. Even if it is a random guy's number
.
” Esther laughed and lightly slapped John's wrist.

The waiter returned with two steaming plates of pasta, smothered in succulent red sauce and tossed with fresh shrimp, scallops and clams. John hung his face over the dish for a second, letting the steam coat his chin.

“What are you doing?”

“I shaved before and my face is a little dry. This feels soothing.”

“Riiiight.”

They ate with dueling noises that would have made any chef in New York proud. The noodles were warm and soft and the seafood had a hint of saltiness, as though plucked straight from the ocean. The mussels were perfectly chewy and the shrimp had light garlic seasoning that made John's mouth water. They moaned their way through heaping forkfuls until they were forced to come up for air.

“Might I say that this was an excellent choice for dinner,” John said, dabbing at his mouth. “If your taste in restaurants is this good I might never want to pick in the future.”

“Getting a little presumptuous aren't we? Next time? In the future?” John rolled his eyes.

“Come on. This is by far the best date I've been on in years, and I'm pretty sure you're not having a bad time yourself. So why don't we cut the b.s., skip the games, and just agree to do this again. Hopefully very soon.” Esther grinned and nodded demurely.

“I think that's a wonderful idea. And I'd
prefer
it if you pick the place next time..”

“Done deal. Now wasn't that easier than playing the 'let's lead John on for a month before agreeing to go out again' game?”

“Absolutely.” She sounded like she meant it.

They finished their dishes, leaving barely more than empty clamshells and sauce residue for the waiter to take away. They declined coffee and desert. To John, the caffeinated buzz of a good date couldn't be trumped by the best Columbian brew, and he was so full that desert probably would have made the pasta come right back up. He tried to hide a grimace when he accepted the check. He paid the tab in cash.

“Change, monsieur?”
Monsieur
. He was pretty sure this was an Italian restaurant…

“No thanks,” he said, adding glibly, “keep the change.”

As the busboy began to clear the dishes, John got a sudden urge.